The Spirit of the Mists
by Mists of Time
Summary: Detective Sherlock Holmes must travel with his companion Dr. Watson to the sleepy village of Northbourne to investigate the mysterious spirit of a young woman haunting the hillside cliffs, a death believed by some to be murder. *Update: Chapter 4*
1. A Letter to Holmes

**AUTHOR:** © 2003 ***Mists of Time***   
**DISCLAIMER:** The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the created property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All inventive characters as mentioned are the property of this author. Any original characters resembling persons existing or deceased is purely coincidental.   
**SUMMARY:** The famous detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes, must travel with his faithful companion, Dr. Watson, to the sleepy village of Northbourne to investigate the mysterious spirit of a young woman haunting the hillside cliffs, who had died a year earlier, a death believed by some to have been murder.   
**RATING:** PG-13   
  


* * *

  


**THE SPIRIT OF THE MISTS**   
Chapter One:   
**_A Letter to Holmes_**

  
  
The letter arrived in an ivory, artless, post-marked envelope with a small stamp of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria placed firmly in the upper right-hand corner. The writing was bold, and rather rough, written in a hurried hand, as if the author had been stressed to mail the letter as soon as time allowed. The envelope was addressed to _Mr. Sherlock Homes, 221B Baker Street, London, England._

But it was the return address that caught my attention. It was from a Jacob Barclay, who judging from the address given on the envelope, resided in Northbourne, Dover. I had never heard Holmes speak of any Jacob Barclay from Northbourne, Dover, nor did my memory store any such name. I was curious about this postage, but I was quickly revived from my daydreaming by the mailman, who had only moments earlier, handed me the letter to deliver to Holmes. 

"Will you, Sir?" the mailman, who incidently happened to be called Bill. He raised his thin eyebrows at me and gave me a look of curiosity. I blushed ever so slightly at my absentmindedness, and asked him to repeat his question. 

"Will you deliver the letter to Mr. Holmes?" he asked again with considerable patience. 

"Why of course, good Sir," I nodded quickly. "He will have the letter safe and sound in his hands before the day is out. 

"Thank you, Dr. Watson, Sir." Bill tipped his cap at me, and continued down the path to the next house to deliver more mail. I was immediately set to administer the dispatch to Holmes and started up the pathway to the house, where my wife, Mary, was standing by the doorway. 

"Anything from my cousin Amelia from Sussex?" she inquired, leaning casually against the doorframe. "I am expecting a long-awaited letter from her. It should have been here by now." 

"Nothing for us, Dear," I replied, still eyeing the letter in my hand. "But a document of sorts has arrived for Holmes." 

"For Mr. Holmes?" Mary parroted. "Here?" she raised an eyebrow and gave me an inquiring look, one of those kinds that always made me feel uneasy, as if her piecing indigo eyes could read the depth and essence of my very soul. A look, all too well, each man recognized as administered by his wife when she is angry, curious, or was rightfully sure of herself and the fact that her husband was momentarily making a fool of himself. 

"I am just as surprised as you are. I have little knowledge as to why Holmes would request an unopened mail, plainly addressed to him, to be forwarded here. But that is what the mailman said Holmes had requested at the post office." 

"But you have _some_ knowledge as to why, I'm sure," Mary pressed on with a slight smile. "It must be of great importance, if he dare not open it at his residence." 

"Or perhaps it is a message that puts anybody in current possession of it in great danger," I amiably tried to jest. It was the wrong thing to say, for poor Mary turned a pale colour that resembled the envelope. 

For a moment, we stared at the envelope in my hand. Then we exchanged an uneasy glance with each other. Then, for some reason, which psychology could explain, we turned our attention back to the envelope. 

"I was only joking," I added quickly with a weak laugh. 

"Oh, I realize that," she nodded. 

Now regarding the letter with a feeling that it could explode into pieces and blow Mary, the entire surrounding neighbourhood including myself into pieces, I carefully stepped past my wife and into the house, where I steered into my private office and tucked the letter away beneath a pile of documents of little importance in my desk drawer. For good measure, I locked the bureau with its key and slipped it into the pocket of my breast suit. 

Breathing a sigh of relief that the dispatch was safe for the present moment, I settled into the living room, where Mary presented me moments later with the morning paper. 

"Are you not going to visit Mr. Holmes with the letter?" she questioned curiously. 

"I believe I shall allow Holmes to beat me to it for once," I replied with a hint of satisfaction in my voice. "He knows I have his letter, and he will come for it." My "so there!" moment of triumph was met with a shrug by my wife and a quick peck on the cheek. She disappeared out of the room via the doorway. And I snuggled into my favourite chair and opened the paper to the first page.   
  


*~*~*~*~* 

  
  
The next time I saw my wife, she found me pacing the living room floor and wearing a trail into the flower-print carpet. 

"What is the matter?" Mary asked, wringing her hands nervously when she saw me in my agitated state. 

"It is Holmes!" I cried out, almost in astonishment. "It has been four hours, and he still has not shown up at the door. "Something must be dreadfully wrong." I stared at Mary, and she in turn, stared woefully at her freshly worn carpet rug. 

"Perhaps he has important matters that must be taken care of first," Mary replied carefully. She gently took my hand and led me back to my chair. I sat down with a heavy thud and stared gloomily at the wallpaper opposite, where a portrait of Mary's Aunt Augusta hung crookedly from the wall. "That is probably why he passed the letter onto your safekeeping," my wife added sensibly. 

"What if he is hurt?" I demanded to Aunt Augusta. "Or in some great danger? Maybe sending the letter over to me was a clue of some sort that he needed my help. Perhaps it was a subtle plea for help that I was to go over to his residence and help him in his dire time of need." 

Aunt Augusta's brusque face was enough to make me jump out of my chair and rush towards the hallway. I gathered my hat and was struggling to get into my coat when Mary appeared from the living room. 

"I am going to rescue Holmes," I said, as if it was the most standard practice in the world. "You stay by the phone in case Holmes should phone, or I should phone, or the police should phone for any reason. Do not tell anybody where I have gone under any circumstances; I might not be back until well after dark." I continued my battle with my coat, as I tried to force my right arm into the covering. "Oh," I stopped struggling, and turned to Mary, who wore a look of amusement upon her serene face. "Do get rid of that dreadful portrait of your Aunt Augusta as soon as possible; her face is enough to sour milk." Mary's own face suddenly turned dark enough to sour milk as well. 

Just at that moment, the doorbell rang with a clear peal, startling us both. I jumped a good three feet into the air; with my heart continuing to beat miles per minute, I threw open the door to find the regaled face of Sherlock Holmes staring back at me. 

"I gather you have received a letter for me from me, Watson?" Holmes asked, all business, no time for pleasant formalities. 

Mary crossed her arms and pursed her lips; I could almost see the hair at the back of her neck bristling. "What do you mean Aunt Augusta has a face that could sour milk?" she demanded. 

"L-letter?" I stammered to Holmes. 

"Aunt Augusta?" Holmes inquired. 

"John!" Mary demanded, now putting her hands on her hips. 

"I think we should all go inside," I suggested, ushering Holmes inside the house. My heart still beating furiously from all the excitement, I glanced suspiciously outside at the afternoon activity, which consisted of two women taking a luxurious stroll down the street. I closed the door, locking it for good measure, and leaned against the door, staring at Holmes and my wife. 

"I assume that you are in no danger?" I demanded. 

"The only danger, Watson, that I perceive, is right here in your very house," Holmes countered dryly, eyeing Mary, who still looked non too pleased at the events that had unfolded. "Now, surely you must know why I am here?" 

"The letter!" Mary and I both acknowledged in unison. Holmes glanced from my wife and then to me before raising an eyebrow. 

"I am sure you are curious as to why I forwarded a letter, unopened, to your address. This will all be cleared up in a moment's time. But now Watson, to your study!" Holmes declared with a passion. 

"My study?" I gasped a little. 

"Why, isn't that where you have secured my letter?" 

"Now how did you deduct that conclusion?" I demanded, acknowledging his correct assertion. 

"Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary," Sherlock Holmes smiled mysteriously. He removed his cap and overcoat to my wife, who hung them carefully upon the hallway rack. "The outline of a key is visible in your breast pocket. The key, I can only assume to be to your bureau in your study, for it has a distinct shape to its handle, a triangle instead of the usual circular loop as most keys have to them. This triangular shape corresponds with its company's logo, the operation, incidentally, being in the business of manufacturing and selling furniture, practically bureaus and all that sorts. I can only conclude that you have hidden the letter safely in your desk, and a most wise idea that was, Watson, for the letter does hold important information, indeed. I am pleased that I made the right decision to forward the letter to you; I know I can trust you with the secrets of this universe as they are offered to me." Holmes took a moment to pause and catch his breath, while I took a moment to bask in the glow of praise offered to me by my esteemed colleague, for Holmes rarely passed down compliments, and when he did, one could be sure he meant them whole-heartedly. 

"Now, let us go to your study, Watson, to read the letter, for I am curious as to its contents just as much as you are, although perhaps I have a better inking of what they hold than you might." Holmes started down the hallway to my study. Mary turned to me and wrinkled her nose, a sign of admiration on her part. 

"Amazing," she commented to me. "How does he do it, Watson?" 

I stared after the figure of Holmes which promptly took a right turn and went into the study. I turned to my wife. "Why, it is all elementary, my dearest Mary," I smiled. "And that is what makes Holmes the biggest mystery of all." 


	2. Confessions of a Constable

**AUTHOR:** © 2003 ***Mists of Time***   
**DISCLAIMER:** The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the created property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All inventive characters as mentioned are the property of this author. Any original characters resembling persons existing or deceased is purely coincidental.   
**SUMMARY:** The famous detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes, must travel with his faithful companion, Dr. Watson, to the sleepy village of Northbourne to investigate the mysterious spirit of a young woman haunting the hillside cliffs, who had died a year earlier, a death believed by some to have been murder.   
**RATING:** PG-13   
  


* * *

  


**THE SPIRIT OF THE MISTS**   
Chapter Two:   
**_Confessions of a Constable_**

  
  
I found Holmes waiting patiently in my study, observing my desk, which was covered with a scatter of documents, with an enthralled expression upon his face. I felt slightly flustered by my unkempt bureau, but then I remembered the state of Holmes' apartment. A few misplaced papers was nothing compared to what poor, Mrs. Hudson, his landlady had to go through on a daily basis! 

"Really, Watson," he exclaimed, as I came forward and produced the key from within my front pocket. "I know you are quite the busy man from the looks of it, but I would advise you to at least separate your patients' accounts with your grocery lists." He picked up a random paper and began to read, "Have Mrs. Caisson take two teaspoons of syrup of Ipecac every five hours, not exceeding a dosage of fifteen grams per day. Tell Mrs. Caisson to buy one litre of milk and two dozen eggs-" 

"I shall be taking that," I replied promptly, snatching the note from his clasp. I stuffed the paper into the pocket of my jacket and proceeded to the back of my desk, where I opened the drawer and fumbled around for the letter. I produced it in a moment's time and tried to hand it to Holmes. He refused the letter. 

"I already know as to the contents of the letter," Holmes replied, glancing at me. A troubled expression crossed his face as he continued to stare. I began to feel rather warm and the room itself seemed to be small and stuffy. Then I noticed he was staring at the curtained window behind me. 

"Watson, old chap, I simply must insist that you open those curtains. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is the waste of a perfectly good afternoon of sunshine." 

I merely shrugged, accustomed to Holmes' frequent peculiar demands, and proceeded over to the window, drawing back the curtains. Sunshine flooded into the room and I recoiled at the bright light. Dust flew about and I withdrew from the window. Holmes had taken the liberty of making himself at home by settling down in a chair. I took a seat behind my desk, the question of the letter, which was lying upon my bureau, still fresh in my mind. 

"What do you think the letter contains?" Holmes threw the question at me with a casual inquiry, perhaps not really expecting an answer. 

"I suppose some secretive, if not important information," I quickly replied. Holmes had impressively threw the solution of the letter's whereabouts to me, and now I wished to impress him with my knowledge of what the document would contain. 

"How did you come about to that conclusion?" Holmes asked with a small smile. 

"The letter is postmarked from Northbourne, Dover, that much I know. The address is written in a hurried, messy hand that implies the writer wanted the letter to reach your hands as soon as possible. You specifically requested the post office to send the letter to my residence without ever opening, nor seeing the texts with your own eyes. And yet you are aware of what this dispatch is about. That is how I conclude the letter is of some worth and importance to you, and perhaps even of some value to myself." 

"Bravo, Watson," Holmes applauded my deductive skills. "You are correct about this letter's prominence, except for the penmanship. He always writes in that slipshod manner." 

"Oh," I replied insipidly. Then I added, "If you know what the letter says, then what should I do with it?" 

"You may read it," came the reply. 

I was privately insulted, regarding other person's mail as sacred. To read one's letter would be to infringe upon the privacy of another. 

The look of consternation must have shown upon my face, because Holmes smiled and added, "This will concern you, too, so the affair of this note holds as much significance to you as it does to me." 

I was not sure how a letter addressed to Holmes would be of any distinction to me, but I had learned over the years not to question such misgivings. I took a letter opener and carefully slit the envelope, taking extra care not to create any unnecessary tears. I unfolded the letter, which consisted of one long page, and began to read aloud:   
  
_To My Esteemed and Dear Friend Sherlock Holmes: _

It has been a long time since we have had time to sit down   
and discuss pleasant civilities. Well, there is no time for that   
now. I am in dire need of your assistance, for in all my years   
of working as a man of the Law, I have never come across the   
apprehension that is staring me down today. To put it in a   
explicit and forward manner, I have reason to believe that the   
community of Northbourne is haunted by a lamenting phantasm.   
  
Pausing from the letter, I glanced at Holmes to see his reaction, expecting a sardonic comment or a musing of skepticism. I received neither. Instead, he produced a pipe from inside his jacket pocket, and waved a hand, a signal for me to continue my reading.   
  
_I understand that affiliations with the metaphysical interest   
you at present. I implore you to travel to Northbourne and stay   
a few days at the expense and lodgings provided by my wife   
and myself. The dilemma at hand has gotten out of constraint   
and has threatened the sanctuary and well being of the municipal   
at present. I request that you speak to no one about this plight;   
I do not wish to let hearsay distort the truth and make the existing   
incident appear unwholesome then it truthfully is. My trust is fully   
in your expertises and abilities to help unravel the pieces of this enigma. _

Your Friend,  
Jacob Barclay 

P.S. Please feel welcomed to bring along your accepted colleague,   
Dr. John H. Watson, of whom I have heard cordial appraisals. 

P.P.S. Elsie gives you her love and blessings.   
  
"Astounding," I commented, putting down the letter. Holmes was correct, the contents of the letter did apply to me, even if I _was_ simply stationed to a _P.S._ at the end of the message. "Written under a deal of stress on the part of Mr. Barclay," I observed. "It sounds genuine enough." 

"Oh, it is," Holmes reassured me. "Elsie Barclay sent a telegram explaining that there was a 'menacing apparition' strutting down the countryside and sending the local townsfolk into a panic. That is how I knew about the letter and its subject matter," Holmes added with a quick wink. 

A laugh escaped my lips; Holmes never ceased to keep me in suspense until he revealed his secrets, which did not seem so difficult to accomplish once known. 

A hint of colour caught my eye from inside the envelope. Turning it over, I let the fragile, pressed flower gently float into the palm of my waiting hand. It was of a pale lavender hue, but the species I could not readily identify. 

"It is a _Digitalis Purpurea_, or Foxglove, a member of the Scrophulariaceae family," Holmes categorized as he examined the flower. He puffed contentedly on his pipe. "They grow wild upon the moors." 

"A clue of some sort, from our friend," I speculated. "But first things first: who is Jacob Barclay?" I implored, wanting to know the facts. 

"Jacob Barclay is the Constable of Northbourne, and a friend of Inspector Lestrade," replied the detective. 

"Is that how you met? Through Lestrade?" 

"On the contrary, Watson. I introduced Barclay to Lestrade. The former I was acquainted with through my brother, Mycroft, many years before I even met _you_." 

"And how would you describe this Jacob Barclay?" I pressed further. "Would you define him as a man that tended to side with hysteria and the masses?" 

"No, I would define him as a man with a good head on his shoulder, not particularly sharp, a little slow on the banters, but he has his wits about him. Does not drink, gamble, nor ingest any illegal substances to my knowledge. His wife Elsie, is much like her husband- kind-hearted and a scrumptious cook. In other words," Holmes lazily crossed his legs, "he is not a man to easily surrender to the stipulations and tantrums of the people, whom are trying to begin a demented 'ghost-hunt'." 

"This throws that theory out the window," I shrugged, a little disappointed. "But surely Jacob Barclay does not believe that a ghost is haunting his village," I suggested with a chuckle. 

"Why not?" Holmes regarded me evenly, without a hint of expression on his face. 

My smile was immediately wiped off my face. "Do you mean to tell me, Holmes, that you believe this ghost is... is _real_?" I compelled. 

"I did not tell you anything. I will not conclude what is and is not real until I have had the opportunity to examine the evidence." 

"I believe that you are hinting subtly that you believe Jacob Barclay," I said suspiciously. Holmes merely smiled in reply. "What do you propose we do about this restless spectre?" I implored. "From the tone of the letter, it appears as if the people will revolt at any instance." I had an image of angry townsfolk with pitchforks and burning torches trying to ram down Jacob Barclay's door with a vast tree log. 

"I propose we head to Northbourne first thing in the morning," Holmes exclaimed, jumping out of his chair. 

"I was afraid you were going to suggest that," I sighed. "Let us hope that this 'menacing apparition' sticks to haunting the church graveyard," I added gloomily. 

Holmes merely laughed in response, and left the study. I followed him out- to see him to the door and inform Mary of my plans to head to Northbourne.   
  


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**March Hare**- Thank you for pointing out that error. I changed it to something else, although FF.net is being rather slow to reflect these changes. :P I might be more modern in my writing than I should be, so be on the lookout for any other mistakes that do not belong. :) 

**Brink**- I've read a one of your fictions and will be sure to read more! I enjoyed them very much, particularly "The Case of the Mad Slasher." Please update soon! 

**Nooka**- Thank you for your review! The contents of the letter itself will be explained soon. But even if you like my story, write one of your own! I would love to read it. 

**Frankie**- I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter. I will try to update as often as possible. :) 

**Es**- Watson and Mary were probably very happy together, but then someone like me comes along and look what happens. :D I can't believe I have never heard of 'The Hound of the Baskervilles According to Spike Milligan'! I've read Conan-Doyle's version of 'Hounds' twice, and I would love to read a non-canon parody of it, PG-17 and all. I'll be sure to check it out. 


	3. Journey to Northbourne

**AUTHOR:** © 2003 ***Mists of Time***   
**DISCLAIMER:** The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the created property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All inventive characters as mentioned are the property of this author. Any original characters resembling persons existing or deceased is purely coincidental.   
**SUMMARY:** The famous detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes, must travel with his faithful companion, Dr. Watson, to the sleepy village of Northbourne to investigate the mysterious spirit of a young woman haunting the hillside cliffs, who had died a year earlier, a death believed by some to have been murder.   
**RATING:** PG-13   
  


* * *

  


**THE SPIRIT OF THE MISTS**   
Chapter Three:   
**_Journey to Northbourne_**

  
  
I arrived at Paddington Station at precisely eight o'clock on the dot. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. After paying the cab driver, I clutched my valise and approached the ticket booth to pay for my ticket. 

"One for Northbourne, please," I told my destination to the ticket master behind the glass booth. "Coach." As the ticket master was printing my information on the admission, I felt a hand placed firmly upon my shoulder. A cold, heavy hand that made me break out in a frigid chill; it startled me to no end. I froze momentarily, but with the thought that no harm could come to any man buying a ticket at a train station, I mustered enough courage to look up- and saw the reflection of Sherlock Holmes staring back at me. 

My sigh of relief must have been heard all the way to the end of the platform. 

"Oh, it is you, Holmes," I breathed, hoping he would not notice the beads of sweat forming upon my brow. 

"We are not in Dover, Watson, so you mustn't frighten over any ghosts just yet," Holmes replied, as the ticket master handed me my ticket, unaware of the harrowing experience I had just been through, right outside his very own booth! 

"The train leaves at 8:15," I said, as Holmes bought his ticket. I grazed at my watch; the time read 8:08. "We have less than seven minutes to board." 

"Calm yourself, Watson. We shall make the 8:15 train," Holmes uttered readily. "I had some business to take care of, mainly to send a telegram ahead of us to Northbourne to explain our arrival." 

Holmes received his ticket, and we approached the train to board. After finding a carriage that was empty, we settled into the two corner seats, and for the first time since yesterday morning, I proceeded to relax. 

The train jolted us with a lurch at exactly 8:15. It began to rumble heavily, but soon, we were rolling smoothly out of London and into the countryside. I stared lazily out the window, watching the picturesque landscape unravel before my eyes. The beauty of the terrain was improved by thick, verdant fields, adorned with a bloom of wild flowers. At times, it appeared as if a painter had taken his brush and sprinkled the fields with various colours of scarlet, azure, and gold. 

Remembering the flower that had arrived with the letter, I searched the inside pocket of my coat and pulled out an unsullied handkerchief, which contained the delicate evidence. The flower was too satiny to crumple; it had been pulled from its stem only recently. At this point, I could not determine if Barclay had sent the flower as a clue, or if Elsie Barclay had simply been trying to be charming to Holmes! 

Speaking of Holmes, I found him napping in his seat, his head resting in an uncomfortable position upon his right shoulder. I could not understand how any man could sleep when there was a mystery to be solved, although knowing Holmes, he had probably figured out half of the puzzle this morning. 

My mind was focused back to the flower, and it got me thinking about what Holmes had told me about Jacob and his wife- particularly that she was a savoury cook. My stomach rumbled, and I realized that I could do with a little bit of Elsie Barclay's cooking to sample. 

That was the last thing I remember contemplating about. The next sounds I heard, were the conductor's, as he yelled out, "Next stop! All off!" and Holmes shaking me awake, from my slumber. 

"We have arrived," he announced in a solemn tone.   
  


*~*~*~*~* 

  
"Northbourne takes its name from the North Stream, which flows from the springs below Northbourne Court. It has an ancient and rather fascinating history; it is even mentioned in the Domesday book..." 

I nodded politely, as Jacob Barclay, Constable of Northbourne, chatted away about the history of the town. He did not need an invitation, but rather he launched into a discussion, which he found captivating. The cab rolled over rough cobblestones, tossing Holmes, Barclay and myself out of our seats on occasion; I felt as if I were flying. 

Barclay was waiting impatiently at the train station when Holmes and I arrived. We found him pacing up and down the platform, until he recognized Holmes, and his agonized face broke out into a warm, welcoming grin. He was not what I had expected, although I could not be certain what my expectations were of Jacob Barclay to begin with. He was short and stocky, especially in the middle. His face was rather plump, with a large nose and thinning, brown hair at the top of his head, complete with long sideburns. And he rejoiced in talking. A lot. 

Holmes seemed to developed a method to block out Barclay's pleasantries as we rode in the cab. He had settled into his seat, with a serene smile upon his face. I would have accused him of sleeping with his eyes open, if it were not for the fact that he would nod on occasion, especially when Barclay took a rare moment to pause for breath. As for myself, I was clinging to my valise and for my life! 

"Is it possible to have motion sickness while riding in a cab?" I hissed quietly to Holmes. "Especially if one has been riding them all his life?" 

"Are you not feeling well?" Holmes responded innocently. 

"I feel like I am soaring for the sky," I replied truthfully, as a hole in the road made the carriage lurch again. Holmes merely patted my hand and focused his attention once more on the constable. 

"... It is recorded that Edbald, the King of Kent, had a hunting lodge built here, probably in the grounds of what is now Northbourne Court. In the year 616, Edbald married his stepmother- his father Ethelbert being deceased- much to the annoyance of the abbot of St Augustine Canterbury. In order to make amends with the Church, Edbald gave the lodge to the abbot to serve use as a monastic settlement and bequeathed the present Church of St Augustine..." 

Just at that precise moment, the carriage stopped. 

"We have reached our destination," Barclay announced, somewhat dejected that he could not finish his tale of the scandalous Edbald and the abbot who condemned him. 

"And none too soon," I muttered under my breath, as I descended from the cab. 

Holmes must have heard my complaint, because he leaned over and ever so slyly, whispered into my ear, "You should meet his wife." 

We soon did. Elsie Barclay was as much as a chatterbox as her husband. She came out of the house and wrapped Holmes in a large hug that would have smothered a man smaller than the detective. Then she tried to smother me. 

"I am so thrilled you could make it, both of you," she beamed at us, clasping her hands. Elsie, much like her husband, was a talkative woman, pleasantly plump with a remarkably pretty nose and brown curls that escaped from her frilled cap. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, and her handsome mahogany eyes shone with joy at the prospect of having two visitors to feed and fuss over. 

Elsie swiftly led Holmes and myself up the brick stone path leading to their attractive summer cottage. Lilac bushes were in full bloom, surrounded by neat rows of pansies and pink snapdragons, periodically peppered with a growth of primroses and white geranium. 

"You must be tired and hungry after your long journey," Elsie chatted amiably. "I know that I am whenever we take the train to London..." The constable's wife led us inside the house and thankfully, immediately directed us to our lodgings and left us to recuperate until dinnertime. 

My bedroom was small, but quite accommodated to my needs. It was immaculate and clean, with a small curtained window that faced the east. A small night stand by the bed contained a vase filled with fresh oleanders. 

Dinner was promptly served at six o'clock to conform to our late arrival. Holmes proved to be accurate about Elsie's Barclay's cooking. She magically produced a roasted peasant with sweet potatoes and a pot of hot, spicy gravy. A loaf of warm bread, fresh from the oven was cut and properly buttered. After the main course, a warm cherry pie was introduced as dessert, along with a plate of fresh apple crumpets. 

It was past seven thirty, when thoroughly stuffed and with my waist expanded, we settled outdoors on the porch for a drink and cigars; the late June temperatures made the nights warm. Barclay poured Holmes and myself a glass of brandy, and the offered us a cigar. Holmes gratefully accepted one, but I declined. As Barclay served himself a drink, I settled back in a rocking chair and observed the quiet tranquillity over the neighbourhood. Except for the occasional baying of a hound in the distance, and crickets chirping repeatedly in the grass, all was hushed. The sun was setting in the horizon, layered in splashes of gold, rouge, and orange. Dusk was setting; through the dimness, I could make out the forms of portly houses, whose lighted windows indicted their occupancy. 

"Is that the sound of waves I hear rustling in the distance?" Holmes inquired, breaking the gentle stillness. 

"Why, yes," Barclay nodded, as he puffed on his cigar. "We are in close proximity to the sea. Supposedly tomorrow, we shall take a visit to the beaches, for it is quite lovely this time of year. Better get there first before the summer visitors from the cities start flocking to," Barclay laughed. 

"Speaking of visitors," through the dusk, I could see Holmes eyes glistening, "Perhaps you would care to tell me what you did not wish to discuss in your letter?" 

Barclay paused, and put out his cigar. "I did not wish to bother you with any tales tonight, but I suppose you both should hear the full story from me, for tomorrow, I imagine you will interview the townsfolk, and they will only fill your heads with lies and half-myths concocted over late drinks in the local pubs." 

"Start from the beginning," Holmes ordered, contentedly taking a puff of his cigar. Barclay nodded, took a sip from his liquor glass and proceeded to tell the wistful tale.   
  


* * *

  
  
**Nooka**- Personally, I don't think that Holmes believes in ghosts, but if he does not, then he isn't letting Watson know that! 

**Frankie**- I always faulted Watson for reading Holmes' mail. I guess a few new rules came along about reading other people's mail when Watson married. ;) 

**Estriel**- I was laughing after reading that line. I must really get my hands on that book. If you need help with your fic, just tell what you need help on and I'll try to offer some assistance. :) 


	4. Ghostly Tales

**AUTHOR:** © 2003 ***Mists of Time***   
**DISCLAIMER:** The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the created property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All inventive characters as mentioned are the property of this author. Any original characters resembling persons existing or deceased is purely coincidental.   
**SUMMARY:** The famous detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes, must travel with his faithful companion, Dr. Watson, to the sleepy village of Northbourne to investigate the mysterious spirit of a young woman haunting the hillside cliffs, who had died a year earlier, a death believed by some to have been murder.   
**RATING:** PG-13   
  


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**THE SPIRIT OF THE MISTS**   
Chapter Four:   
**_Ghostly Tales_**

  
  
"It all began with a young lady by the name of Elena Spencer." It was here that Barclay paused, as his eyes acquired a faraway, dreamy look to them. "She was a beauty, there was no contesting that; a lady of class and integrity." 

"Aren't they all," Holmes commented dryly. "It would never seem quite right to describe a deceased woman as horribly ghastly-looking, or find it worthwhile to mention the warts on her nose." 

It was hard to tell whether Barclay choose to deliberately ignore Holmes' utterance, or whether he was still thinking about the attractiveness of Elena Spencer. He continued on as if Holmes had never interrupted him. 

"Her father was the late George Spencer, a man of considerable wealth and means. The Spencer estate is located near the outskirts of Northbourne, where most of the opulent families reside. 

"I assume this Elena Spencer has something to do with the phantom that has been distressing the town?" I asked with raised eyebrows, for I did not see where this story was heading. 

"Yes," Barclay nodded. "Miss Spencer has everything to do with the current situation at hand. "If anything, I feel that she is personally responsible for this whole affair." 

"Where might one find Elena Spencer?" I requested, as Holmes appeared to be strangely silent on the topic. 

"One might try the St. Augustine church graveyard," Barclay responded without expression in his voice. "For you see, Elena Spencer died almost a year ago." He glanced at Holmes and then myself to see our reactions; this proved futile as the dusky shadows now made it almost impossible to see each other's faces. "It is believed that the ghost of Miss Spencer is the one that the village folk have been spotting repeatedly for almost four months now." 

There was a gloomy pause of silence. "How did Miss Spencer die?" For once, Holmes seemed to hold some interest in our forlorn spectre. 

"The young lady took a heavy fall while riding one day. It must have been a good couple of hours before they found her, unconscious. She might have died within the week, if it had not been for the immediate care of a doctor, who managed to practically single-handedly pull her from Death's door. But she remained in her weakened state for almost two years. A year after her accident, her father passed away from an accidental drowning. Miss Spencer never did recover from the shock; she had lost all will to live, it was said. A year later, she joined him peacefully in the night." 

I was secretly disappointed with Barclay's explanation. I had expected drama, such as a jealous lover driven to murder, or a mad guardian forcing the lady to commit suicide, but this was as a standard accident as one could get. Were these not reasons why souls ordinary returned to earth? What reason did Elena Spencer have for coming back? I realized that I was deliberating this situation as if the ghost was real, and chided myself for entertaining such thoughts. 

"Sightings of Miss Spencer, or her ghost, I should say, began nearly four months ago," Barclay stated. "There are three primary witnesses that I trust would offer an accurate testimony to the espies. The first is a young lad, who claimed he saw a young woman wandering the woods of the Carrington estate. He only got a glimpse of the damsel's face, and puzzled, for she bore a strong similarity to the late Miss Spencer. His deposition might have been dismissed as an isolated incident, but three days later, John Bowser, while delivering a message to one of the neighbouring homes, also claimed to have seen a lady venturing around the Carrington acreage. Unfortunately, Bowser only saw the back of the woman, but he was almost certain that the female was Miss Spencer, and if given the opportunity, he could readily identify her, or at least her back, anyway. Now John Bowser is an honest man, attends church regularly, and does not drink or abuse his wife. When he says he say Elena Spencer, than one better believe he saw Miss Spencer or someone who _resembled_ the deceased. The third and most unreliable witness was Mr. Nicholas Edmunds, a youth of twenty-one years, although by all accounts, he considers himself man enough to drink at the tavern each evening," Barclay snorted his disapproval. "Edmunds comes from one of the wealthier families in our village; they only stay for the summer and leave before the first leaves of fall began to change colour. I have had the displeasure of meeting him twice, and neither times did he impress me with his character. He is much too arrogant and spoiled for his own good. I see nothing but trouble coming to that boy," Barclay sniffed. 

"Trouble aside, what did Edmunds alleged to have seen?" Holmes asked. 

"Edmunds, after a particularly late night drinking with friends, walked home and decided to take a short cut through the Carrington property, though for all we know, he could just as well been spying on the lady of the manor. It was a foggy night, as it usually is on that manor because it stands right above the water. Edmunds affirmed that he saw a young woman standing in the haze, albeit he could not clearly see her face. He says that he called out to the woman. She never answered. Instead, he claimed with a feigned shiver for effect, the young woman simply stepped into the mist and vanished _right before his very eyes_. That was enough to send young Edmunds over the edge. The Vicar found him the next morning, curled up in a little ball on the doorstep of the church." Barclay rested for breath. "The only thing to have come from it? The fool has stopped drinking at the tavern every night!" The constable chuckled with delight. 

Holmes and I digested these revelations in silence. Personally, I felt suspicious by all three attestations, but I did not dare state my opinion as of yet. Holmes, on the other hand, felt free to comment: 

"How can one be sure that the purported ghost of Miss Spencer was simply mistaken for another woman?" 

Barclay merely shrugged. "I have not seen any reported phantasms, Holmes, so I cannot assert my impression upon this matter. I would have dismissed all reports, until the townsfolk got wind of these stories, and panic overset the village overnight. Sightings became frequent, and daily, a new soul had a tale to tell with his close encounter with the ghost of Miss Spencer. Now, most of these people were simply too drunk to tell which direction was home, and the remaining few I would not trust to tell the truth if their life depended on it," Barclay asserted firmly. "Especially since some of these accounts were doubtful. Allegations of Miss Spencer's ghost ranged from her peering into windows embodying sleeping occupants to stealing undergarments hanging from the lines." 

"Suitable hobbies for one who is deceased, do you not think?" Holmes remarked sarcastically. "Why haunt graveyards when there are fresh undergarments for the taking?" 

"Perhaps that would explain my missing laundry," came the reply from behind. I jumped in my chair, and perceived the figure of Elsie Barclay carrying two oil lamps with her. She sat them upon the porch railing; I could now see the faces of Holmes and Barclay more clearly. "I should have suspected that Miss Spencer would spend her afterlife stealing a pair of Jacob's undershirts," Elsie jested with a broad smile upon her face. 

Finding these citations highly amusing, I could not suppress a chuckle from escaping. "You have your work quite cut out for you, Constable," I had to offer praise to the man. "I sincerely doubt I would be able to handle ghosts roaming my town and calmly sit there without batting an eye." 

"I told you these allegations could not be trusted," Barclay shook his head. "But the people refuse to listen to reason. One of the local Irish families are convinced the ghost of Miss Spencer is actually a banshee, and that someone is to die a horrid death in the coming weeks. Other households are convinced it is a sign of evil times to come. Once the Porter clan heard about this revelation, they decided the only way to ward off possible evil was to counter it with good. It was suggested a wedding should be hosted, although it is probably just an excuse to consume free beer and take advantage of the buffet. But as of current count, four men and seven young women have volunteered themselves for marriage in the event it proves necessary. And old Mrs. Greyson suggested performing an exorcism to rid the village of the apparition. Thankfully, it will be postponed until the vial of holy water arrives from the Vatican. As of last Tuesday, the Vicar has been on standby to either perform a funeral, one wedding, an exorcism, or all three, if Mrs. Greyson had her way," Barclay said without humour. 

"Good heavens," Holmes commented with a frown. "Very distasteful to prepare for a funeral without a body." 

"I will enlist myself as their cadaver if these prevarications do not cease," stated the Constable. "Next week shall be the first anniversary of the death of Elena Spencer. That is one of the reasons I requested your arrival at Northbourne. I fear the anniversary will provoke some sort of uprising in the streets." 

"That, or they shall bar themselves inside the church and not come out until morning," Elsie spoke up worriedly. 

"Let the people hold themselves hostage in the church," Barclay rolled his eyes. "They need religion. It is the Vicar I fear for. To be held poisoner in one's own church is horrid enough, but with those imbeciles?" 

"I would not wish to spend the night with these people," Elsie said. 

"I believe I speak for everyone when I state that no one in his right mind would care to spend the night with those inhabitants," Barclay declared. "What do you think of all this, gentlemen?" 

"Er, I believe I would not care for that sort of thing, either," I said with a frown. "I hardly know these people." 

"I meant concerning the ghost sightings," Barclay remedied. 

"In that case, what do you surmise, Holmes?" I turned to the detective. 

"I think I, too, shall pass on the midnight mass at church, thank you," Holmes replied. "But I am quite willing to investigate your ghost, Constable." 

"Perhaps you would care to begin with the source," Elsie suggested quietly. "They say she only comes out at night." 

There was a pause of silence as we envisioned the lonely spirit of Elena Spencer walking along the wood, weeping in sorrow for her untimely death, allowing only faint glimpses to human eyes through the fog. I saw Elsie give an involuntary shiver and glance in dread at her husband. 

"But surely, these are mere tales of superstitious hysteria," I broke the silence. "After all, ghosts do not _exist_," I felt the need to point this fact out. Three heads turned to stare in my direction. 

"How soon _do_ you think the holy water will arrive from the Vatican?" Holmes inqueried innocently of the Constable.   
  


*~*~*~*~* 

  
Later that night, I confronted Holmes in the hallway, just before we were to part ways to our respective rooms. 

"Do you truly believe the idea of Elena Spencer's ghost haunting the countryside?" I demanded, hoping Holmes would reveal a clue as to what was processing through that mind of his. 

"You rely on my opinion too much, Watson," Holmes replied in his typical fashion. "Tomorrow, we shall investigate all three reliable witnesses, and then you can make up your own mind as to whether there is a real spirit out there." 

"Do you call Edmunds' testimony reliable?" I asked with raised eyebrows. 

"Alright then, Watson. All _plausible_ sightings." Holmes frowned and a contemplative expression crossed his face. "I say we pay a visit to the Carrington property tomorrow and introduce ourselves to the tenants. But for the meantime, get a good night's rest, for tomorrow, I do believe we shall find ourselves venturing into hidden territories." And with that said, Holmes closed the door to his room, leaving me gaping in the hallway. 

"Venturing into hidden territories?" I parroted. "I do not like the sound of that at all," I griped to myself, and went to my room. 

If Holmes chose to believe in ghosts, that was his business; I was quite confident that my views would soon be proven to be correct. Ghosts, I thought in disgust as I drew the curtains together, what utter nonsense! But just to be on the safe side, I slept with the windows locked that night.   
  


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**Nooka**- Thank you for your review. :) I updated after a long, dry period, but I will post new chapters every couple of days now if possible. 

**March Hare**- Yes, I can be quite the mean writer when I have to. :P I didn't mean to leave a cliffhanger for too long, but alas, FF.net would not let me update. Suspect it's their wacky servers, or maybe my computer seeking revenge. 

**Frankie**- I would never wish for you to beg, so I promise to update with each chapter as soon as possible. :) I personally think the next chapter will be a little more juicer, and we shall be introduced to some new characters. Lots of new characters. 

**Estriel**- Hey, someone likes my imagery! That's uplifting for an author to hear. Thank you. :) My e-mail is in my profile, too; I will try to e-mail you as soon as possible with any constructive criticism I can offer. 

**Arctic Squirrel**- Okay, no more cliffhangers... until later chapters. I'm evil in that way. ;) But they won't be too big this time. 

**Brink**- Thank you for your view. :) Next chapter, we shall learn more about the ghost and what _really_ happened to her. 

**Eric**- It's good to hear I'm staying in character as much as possible. I don't think I could ever capture Conan Doyle's style of writing, but I don't want the poor man rolling his grave, either. Yes, Barclay is an original, and so will any others that will be introduced in the future, although at least one more canon character will make an appearance in later chapters. And I promise not to use "Elementry" in future chapters, as Holmes has already spoken that line and should not repeat it until next time, when a whole new story is written. Thanks for reviewing. :) 


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